Hush Little Bird…
Hush little bird,
Hush back home.
It isn’t the time for a Light of Eden,
Or a morning of galore.
It is this epitome of petrification,
That keeps me from giving you flight
From this safe haven, a warm home.
It is all a matter of a few seconds,
In which everything becomes lost again.
As lost as a feather that I dropped in taking my first flight,
Over yonder distances, far from home, from my safe haven,
To build a new one.
I am sorry.
Nature’s not my subordinate and neither am I her slave.
We work in opposite directions, in agony and antagonism.
He runs his own story and I run mine.
And though we have not decided who is stronger among us,
I have a child to protect and a home to leave.
He has a Master to sustain and homes to destroy.
This isn’t a morning of finding food where it hasn’t been.
It is a morning of flying away to a home that we have never dreamt of.
There is obscurity and ill-advise around us.
I heard the crows banging on Linda’s door the other day,
I wish I could be that strong,
But time will tell.
For a crow has no child to protect,
And I’ve got you.
You stay by my side,
And I won’t let either of us be a lone traveller.
I stand by the human’s nest that haunts of worldly deeds and jealous caverns,
And as I stand here to protect my lone strangeness,
I can’t help but feel the wrath of Mother Nature beneath my toes.
How much do I detest the rain even though there is light,
And there is hope no matter the thunder, the clouds and the haze.
But even in the inadequacy, the sun will rise and it is rising,
But to a day maybe not well spent.
A day without a home.
A day spent in finding refuge, warmth and making amends with mother nature.
I wish that the dead could hear me,
As they shiver and tremble in their graves.
Or maybe the chanters could hear me in the voices in their heads,
And the rhapsodies in their ears,
And the symphonies in their hearts.
If only they could hear me sing one more time,
They could hear the voice that I carry away to another abode.
Secure and safe.
An abode that’s far away from the darkness that these clouds carry.
I don’t want you to see what I have seen
Because I don’t want you to be me, I want you to be you.
I want you to be the daughter of a mother who has seen a lot,
But is beyond that which brings her down.
I know there isn’t much in me,
But there is a lot more in you.
More than Mother Nature could carry,
More than what has been given to you,
And that is your gift.
But gifts only remain anonymous gifts as long as you don’t open them.
So it is imperative that you do open them.
You open your gifts and you share them,
With those around you,
With those that when they look up in the sky,
At maybe a morning just like this one,
Where clouds darken around them,
The thunder makes them voiceless,
And the ground beneath them shakes and trembles,
Not under their weight,
But the weight of that which crushes them from above,
With those that might find refuge in your last song,
Your last sung rhapsody,
And find something of their own.
And as you and I and us fellow birds,
Sit around, on the edges of the worldly apprehensions,
I see the discomfort and the uncertainty among us,
I see some silence and then I see some upheaval,
I see a lot.
We’re among them,
We are the next group of immigrants that are going to leave this place.
I do not know.
But I promise you,
A place better than this one.
For I do not want you to grow up under the same roof,
That I tried to jump off of in my inadequacy,
To someplace where your gifts can bloom,
And ignite the fire that lies dormant in this trembling earth.
You are more than these earthen layers.
You see far and beyond,
And you feel the wrath,
But you stay steadfast in that wrath.
You seek the discomfort,
And you feel the trembling earth,
Sobbing and weeping beneath you.
You sit like a silent raven,
At the edge of the worldly apprehensions.
And you look out to the skies and hear the thunder,
You shake away last night’s rain,
And you look ahead to the food for the day.
No matter the rain,
No matter the clouds,
No matter the thunder,
You pave your path.
Like the voiceless raven waiting to sit,
On its next unbound grave, on the next corpse,
With an unwavering scythe.
And you wait for the sun to rise,
For if the bird knew that it wasn’t going to get any food for the day,
It won’t go out searching for it in the first place.
– Imaan Siddiq